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Fairelie thy serious thoughts to write or speake,
Stoutlie vpon thy foe, thy lance to breake.
It did not with thine actiue spirit suite
To wast thy time in fingring of a Lute,
Or sing mongs't Cupids spirits a puling Dittie
To moue some femall saint to loue or pittie.
T'was Musick to thine eare in ranged batle
To heare sad Drums to grone, harsh Trumpets ritle:
Or see, when clouds of bloud do rent in sunder,
The pouders lightning, and the Canons thunder.

And when thou might'st at home haue liued free
From cares and feares in soft securitie,
Thou scorning such dishonorable ease,
To all the hazards both of land and sea's,
Against Religions and thy Countries foes,
Franklie thy selfe and safetie did'd expose.

O Sacred virtue thy mild modest glances,
Rais'd in his tender heart, these amorous trances,
For thy deare loue so dearely did he weane
His youth from pleasures, and from lusts vncleane:
And so in thy straight narrow paths still treading,
He found the way to endlesse glorie leading.


But soft (sad Muse) tis now no fitting taske,
The prayses of his well spent Youth t'vnmaske,
To sing his pious cares, his studious night's,
His thriftie daies, his innocent delights,

Or tell what store of vsefull obseruations

He gain'd at home and 'mongst the neighbring Nations.
Leaue we this virgin theame vntouch't, vntainted,

Till some more happie hand so liuely paint it,
That all Posteritie may see, and read,

His liuing virtues when hee's cold and dead.


(Sweet Youth) what made thee hide thine amorous face, And cheekes scarce downie in a steelie case, And like yong Cupid vnder Mars his sheild, Mongst men of armes to braue it in the field?

Thought'st thou (o fondling) cruell death would pitty The faire, the yong, the noble, wise and witty, More then the foule and foolish, base and old? Oh no: the tirant bloudy, blind and bold, All the wide world in single combate dareth, And no condition, sex or age he spareth.


Yet some supposed since in open fight
Thou had'st so often scap'd his murdering might,
That sure he fear'd to throw his fatall dart
Against thine innocent faith-armed heart:

Yet sooth to say; twas thy sweet louely youth
That so often mou'd flint-harted Death to ruth.
Though now intangled in thy locks of amber
The inamour'd monster dogs thee to thy chamber,
And there (alas) to end the mortall strife,
He rauish thee of beautie and of life.

XI. To Nature.

Nature, although we learne in Graces schoole,
That children must not call their mother foole.
Yet when wee see thee lauishly to burne,
Two or three lights when one would serue the turne.
When we perceiue thee through affection blind,
Cocker the wicked, to the good vnkind.
Ready the stinking rankest Weeds to cherish,
When Lillies, Violets, and sweet Roses perish:

Wee cannot chuse but tell thee 'tis our thought,
That age or weaknesse (Nature) makes thee dote.

XII. Natures Reply to the Censure.

Vaine men, how dare yee, in your thoughts vnholy; Mee, (nay your Maker) to accuse of folly? And all impatient with your plaints importune Heav'n, Earth, and Hell, Death, Destiny, and Fortune?

When 'tis not these poore Instruments that cause
Your Crosses but the neuer changing Lawes
Of your Almightie, mercifull Creator;
Who sitting supreme ludge and Moderator
Of mens affaires : doth gouerne and dispence
All, by his All-disposing Prouidence;

And equally his glorious ends aduances By good or bad, happy or haplesse chances.

XIII. To the Right Honourable, Elizabeth, Countesse of Southampton.

Great and good Lady, though wee know full well,
What tides of griefe in your sad brest doe swell:
Nor can in this our simple mourning Verse,
The thousand'th part of your deepe cares reherse.

Yet as the lesser rivulets and fountaines, Run hastning from the Fields, the Meads, & Mountaines, Their siluer streames into the Sea to poure, So flow our tributary teares to your ;

That from the boundlesse Ocean of your sorrow

Our eyes new springs, our harts new griefs may borrow.



Could we as easily comfort, as complaine; Then haply this our charitable paine,

Might merit from your grieued heart some thanks;
But oh, our griefs so swell aboue the banks
Of shallow cnstome, and the feeble fences
That are oppos'd by Reason, Art, or Senses;
That if Religion rul'd not our affections,
And pacifi'd our passions insurrections;

We should in mourning misse, both meane and scope,
And sorrow (Pagan-like) sans Faith or Hope.

XV. Eidem.

Madam, though we but aggrauate your Crosses,
Thus sadly to repeat your former losses:
Whil'st you sit comfortlesse, as all vndone,
Mourning to lack an Husband and a Sonne.

Yet may it giue your grieued heart some ease,
To saile with company in sorrow's Seas:
To thinke in them you are not tost alone,
But haue the Kingdome partner in your mone:
To thinke that those for whom you weep, are blest,
Lodg'd in the heauenly harbour, where they rest
Secure, nere more to grieue, to want, to feare,
To sin, to Die, or to let fall a teare.

So though heauens high Decree haue late bereft you Of two at once, yet hath his bountie left you Many faire daughters, and a sonne t' inherit Your Loue, our Honour, and his Fathers Spirit.

W. P.

The least part of the shadow of Southamptons worth.

Great Lord; thy losse though I surcease to mourne, Sith Heanen hath found Thee: yet I'le take my turne To wait vpon thy Obsequies a while,

And traile my pen, with others of my File:

And tell thy worth; th' effects whereof wee felt, That in the lists of thy command haue dwelt. VOL. XX.

2 H

Religions Champion, Guardian of that Isle;
Which is the Goshen of Great Brittains soyle :
How good, how great example dy'd in thee,
When th' Heire of both, preuents thy destiny?
And scarce a pattern's left for those behind
To view in one so Great so good a mind.
Thou Man of Men, how little doth thy Name
Need any Muses praise, to giue it Fame:
Whose liu'ry gayn'd by merit, thou hast worne,
And beg'd or bought esteeme didst hold in scorne:
But wast in darkest lustre, chillingst cold
A perfect Dimond, though not set in gold;
And whether thy regard were good or ill,
Did'st (constant) carry one set posture still.
Needs must the world grow base, and poore at last,
That Honours stock so carelessly doth wast,
How prodigall is shee, that would send forth
At once Two Noble Persons of such worth,
As great Southampton, and his Martiall Heyre?
When scarce one Age yeelds such another payre.
Combin'd in resolution, as infate,

To sacrifice their liues for good of State :

How forward was his youth, how far from feares⚫
As greate in hope, as hee was young in yeeres.
How apt and able in each warlike deed
To charge his foe, to mannage fiery steed?
Yet these but Essays were of what was hee,
Wee but the twilight of his spirit did see.
What had his Autumne bin? wee yet did spy
Only the blossom of his Chieualry.

Death enuious of his actions, hastned Fate
Atchieuements glory to anticipate.
In both whose periods, this I truly story
The earth's best essence is but transitory.
You valiant hearts, that grudged not your blood
To spend for Honour, Country, Altars good:
Your high attempt, your Noble House doe crowne
That chose to dye in Bed of Fame; not Downe.
Liue still admir'd, esteem'd, belov'd; for why
Records of Vertue, will not let you die:
Your Actiue Soules in fleshly gyues restrein'd,
Haue Victory, and Palmes of triumph gain'd:
Your Belgick Feauer, doth your Being giue,
And Phoenix-like, you burne, and dye, and liue.

Qui per virtutem peritat non interit.


Upon the Life and Death of the Right Honourable, Henrie, Earle of Southampton, and the Lord Wriothesly his Son.

Henry Wriothesly Earle of Southampton,

Thy Honour is worth the praise of all Men.

Great Worthy, such is thy renowned Name,
Say what I can, it will make good the same.
On such a theme I would euen spend my quill,
If I had meanes according to my will:
And tho I want fine Poets Wit and Art,
I gladly streine the sinews of my heart :
And prostrate at the Tombe of these two Lords
My tongue, my pen, and what my Fate affords.

Henry Wriothesley Earle of Southampton.

Vertue is thy Honour; O the praise of all men!

Some men not worth, but fauour doth aduance
Some vulgar breath, some riches doe inhance :
Not so the Noble Squire, of whom I treat,
Nought makes him honour'd, but Vertues great :
Cardinall, Morall, Theologicall,

Consider well and behold in him all.

Yet notwithstanding all his Vertues, hee
Lies now in dust and darknesse: Hereby see
How death can rent the hopes of worthy Squires,
And dash their proiects, and crosse their desires.
Yet shall not Death triumph in Vertues fall,
For this his Name is still esteem'd of all.
Death strooke his Body; onely that could die,
His Fame is fresh; his Spirit is gone on hie.

Iames Wriotesley, Baron of Tichfield,

Boyles in Field, to reach worthy's Fame.

O Rare bright Sparke of ancient Chiualry,
In tender yeeres affecting warlike Glory!
O Noble Impe of that thrice Noble Sire,
What was it that thus kindled thy desire?

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